Shining threads

Shining threads

Thursday, 20 December 2012

A poem for the world's ending.

Here we stand, poised at the edge of the end of a world.
Teetering on the precipice,
wondering whether to stay, fall or fly.
The end of a great cycle.
A 5000 year Baktun.
Both aware that things need to change
and uncertain as to exactly how they may.
Watching for the first stepping stone to appear to start the journey. 
Visions erupt and unless dived into, quickly fade back
into the fabric of possibility. 

Tomorrow, the sun shall shine.
The grass will still be green
and people will walk by on the street.
All these things shall in all likelihood continue.

In the midst of many calendars, many systems of time,
we do well to escape the charge of their power
over the universe's own turns and spirals and whirls.

The world, caught in suspension,
between snatched utopias and threatened dystopias,
quivers with anticipation.
Heaven and hell balanced in our own hearts and minds,
it is we who make up the world
and we who determine its destiny through our own paths.

What shall we do with this ending of the world?
If tonight is a portal, through which we step
and tomorrow opens out into some new land of possibilities
(as every morning does),
what shall we do?
When half the world is caught speculating,
some bent on cynicism,
some centred in meditation,
some teasing out the relation of expectation to manifestation.

What shall we do with this ending of the world?
Shall we mourn? Grieve this world we invested in?
Burn our bankcards and leave our homes?
Write goodbye notes to those left behind in the rapture?
Shall we stay awake in anxious fever?
Shall we dance into the night?
What beginnings will it herald?
Can we end with grace and walk the line
to a new stage of configuration?
Endings pose so many questions -
what does 'happily ever after' look like?

The gods no doubt are laughing, as they juggle worlds
and see we humans as insignificant ants,
caught in our local dramas.

'This has all happened many times before.' they whisper.
'Just put one foot in front of the other and become dream.
Become the future you want to unfold.'

And so our sun aligns with its galactic source
and whatever happens shall happen
and because we make it happen.

And everyone will say, 'I told you so.'
Because everyone is right in their own way,
according to their own wavelength.

So welcome the end of the world.
and the passing of the ages
to enter a new era,
knowing that whatever happens shall happen
and because we make it happen.

And let it be so.

Saturday, 15 December 2012

Re-framing sin

Obsession is good. To be compelled. To choose again and again. To long passionately. To feel deeply. To attach to a goal without compromise. To yoke one's destiny to a repetitive beat that grows louder and louder the further you walk. To say yes, again and again.

Idleness is good. To be lazy. To kick back. Do nothing. To wander. To wonder. To daydream. To let go. Drifting without focus. Flicking through pages without aim. Letting the mind unwind and energies settle.

Rudeness is good. Being abrupt. Having a short-fuse. Speaking one's mind. Cutting someone off. Complaining. Swearing. Breaking taboos and convention. Crossing 'the line'.

Grossness is good. Doing a poo. Digging the soil. Performing oral sex. Blowing your nose. Taking a shower. Attending to base needs. Such pleasures in necessity. Low-brow indeed.

We need variation - all things have their time in the sun, in our ceaseless circling.

Sunday, 18 November 2012


Reading the back, sides and front of a cereal box. Opening the plastic wrapping to liberate the free gift which serves to distract for a few moments. Wondering whether to add more milk or more cereal and round and round until I draw a line and STOP.

Climbing a tree, getting higher and higher, holding onto thinner and weaker branches until I eventually draw a line and STOP.

Enjoying the craft of spliff-rolling, curling the Rizla paper around the evenly-spread tobacco and cannabis mix, smoking yet another one until I draw a line and STOP.

Picking another book off the shelf and perusing its pages, I embark on another mission of info-injecting, followed by the inevitable process of processing, digesting and sifting the wheat from the chaff, until I draw a line and STOP.

Entering into a new relationship, getting closer and closer, deeper and deeper, drowning in the waters of disclosure and bodily fluid, until I draw a line and STOP.

Within the beats of the rhythm there are hundreds of pauses, each of which is a STOP. Reality is a flowing set of traffic lights, a car with a hand-brake, a house with a bed, a computer with a shut down function.


Take a break. Then make a break.


We are dream

The pace of the rat-race pits different races against one another (there is no race but just genetic expression but hush....)

So fast that class distinctions get mixed up whilst asserting themselves still.

The agenda of gender politics gets subsumed into the chase - whether sexualised or chaste, feminists and the old-school are all on the ride, running away from the incoming tide that wants to suck them back into the sea. Do you see? The stakes are high. Our dreams cast in visions in the sky, as we build castles from the sand to make them manifest, to pass the test, to become dream.

Do you want to become dream? Is this what the rat-race is to overtake rape and hate and all these things we don't like?

The race leads people in different directions according to their interpretations of what it is to win. And their results are framed in the picture-gallery of eternity which is heaven and hell, until which time they change the story and rewrite the image. Or not.

So the sea, the beach, the ground - the firm ground of society, so they say, from which we move into dream and the unity of the sun, that is everything, draws us in. We are One. Being beyond all we've left behind, being all we have become. No longer alone and rats in a race we don't fully understand but all One. The great big fat Circle of life holds us like a cosmic hula-hoop, spinning all those willing to dance within its loop. And our dance keeps the Circle spinning. We need each other.

So escape the sea, see the dreams of the sky, make models on the beach and then create architecture on the ground from which we ascend, into the deep blue dream sky of mysteries and be forever Unity, as the sun shines and we shine and we are dream.

Wednesday, 3 October 2012


Visions flash of dreamworlds - good, bad and indifferent.

Euphoria and paranoia intertwine - depending on one another for their existence.

Shadows cast by the light morph across the landscape.

And those who know, enjoy what works.

Thursday, 27 September 2012


Anomalies create curves in straight lines,
pepper-spraying the police of inflexibility.

Anomalies are eyes from which the soul of theories burst forth.
The pores through which we breathe.

Anomalies sneeze.
They seize power when no-one is looking,
when the security guards of rigidity are asleep.

Anomalies are animals.
The spots of existence, difference and dazzling exception.

Anomalies wheeze,
as they climb the stairs of systems,
then, when they realise they are going nowhere,
slide down the banister with a great big 'wheeeee!'.

Anomalies do not say please,
they do not respect the rules,
they are not on time,
they are not conventional,
they do not vote,
they do not see things in terms of boxes,
they do not work,
they are not predictable,
except when to do so would be to upturn the norm.

Anomalies creep up on you in dark alley-ways,
at the edge of your comfort zone,
in liminal states,
and tear fissures in the fabric of now.

Anomalies live in their own way,
with their elbows on the table,
singing with their mouth open full of glory
and starting a revolution of randomness.
Punctuating normality with glitter-ball wonder,
so the disco of difference
(and please, no deference)
really comes alive.

Thursday, 13 September 2012


Our beings are poems of everything we ever were and are and may be.

Scars speak stories on the body's page. Postures are reflections of our spirit's shape. The face is our transmission to the world.

So personal, brutalists build up body armour to protect themselves from the tough tussle of their lives but these are false-ego bodies. Anorexics exercise ultimate power of denial to create skeletal frames. The obese make a fleshy cushion to insulate themselves against the world. The body knows its own contours of comfort and proportion.

Our auric field, our skin and flesh and bones, our blood and emotions and deeper feelings that bubble up from transpersonal realms.

A true smile is not a chosen action but an effect of the whole body's pleasure.

Every scratch, spot, wound, mole, freckle, line and hair is sacred.

There are an infinite images that are not us and yet we rush to these altars and miss the reality of our own holiness.

To be holy is to be whole in an embrace of our entirety, our simplexity, in all its particularities and needs and quirks.

I have learnt to love the sneeze, the pulse, the involuntary reaction. These are me. I am human first - all other identities span out from that.

My body is not science - though science has its theories. My body is a poem and I do not claim to understand its meaning yet it fascinates.

There is no love without appreciation. There is no meeting without presence. We are never other than we are and no place other than here and now.

There is movement yet the stillness is ever-present.

Friday, 24 August 2012


Life gave me a package. The package was called BE. I opened the package and in the package was a couple of packages called BE COME. I opened the packages and in the packages were four packages called BE COME SOME ONE. I opened the packages and in the packages were eight packages called BE COME SOME ONE WHO YOU WANT TO. I opened the packages and in the packages were 16 packages called BE COME SOME ONE WHO YOU WANT TO BE FORE IT IS TOO LATE TO CHANGE. I opened the packages and in the packages were 36 jigsaw pieces and I sat down and re-arranged the pieces and they formed a mirror and I saw myself.

Truth and Dare

Humanitarian intervention spins terrorist spins freedom fighter spins World War 3 spins Truth or Dare - Truth and Dare - Dare to tell the Truth - Dare-devils tell the Truth - be the Devil's advocate when the world is hiding in God-concepts.

Expand - get out of the valley and off the mountain so you can see and be BOTH.

Let the trees of the wild flank the pillars of civilisation - the stars and satellites punctuate the sky - the sculptures of human design criss-cross with more feral patterns sprouting from the ground.

Let electrical energy surge through a network of phones, brains, atmospheric haze and digital symphonies.

Erotic communion speaks rhythmic body conversations in endless forms for the play of difference and meeting. The answer is why not. The question has been forgotten.

Leave the cave - was his final caveat - leave the cave was the only sensible solution as the walls of the senses started to cave in - leave the cave is the logical next step and step out into the real light (and darkness).

The gods dance with one another - Dionysus's sexy sleaze-shuffle grinds up against Apollo's stiff, pristine form. Energies combine and mutate. The think-feel-flesh of humanity-various re-arranges. The alchemists' time has come.

A touch so soft she melts, a touch so soft her surface melts, a touch so soft the ice-caps melt, a touch so soft the melting ice joins the oceans of the world and floods the lands - it's happening so slowly yet decisively since our touch is so soft, so tender, so convenient.

The seasons are subverted - nature has been tweaked by human effects into a post-modern remix.

Dance - the wind whispers - Dance - the wind murmurs - Dance - the wind suggests - Dance - the wind sings - Dance - the wing cries - Dance - the wind screams - Dance!

The juggling planets twirl and twist, orbiting round the resplendent sun - the original busker - ever-beneficient - and we - fleas on the back of our host - move incessantly through the green-blue-flower-bliss of our Earth - and everything speaks of change and everything speaks of change and everything speaks of change and change is the way.

Things rock and pull and stretch and collide and overshadow and in the midst of the dynamic chaos a gentle voice speaks with absolute clarity - Middle - Middle-next-forward.

Monday, 20 August 2012

The music of the weather

Weather is a symphony - each raindrop a note, each rolling of clouds across the sky a new variation on a familiar theme.

Ever innovating within a set repertoire of possibilities.

The sun is the ever-present conductor.

Peaks and troughs, rising crescendos of summer ecstasy, followed by pitiful lows of shivering winter bleakness.

The music plays - and though we may influence it in part - we still must dance to whatever happens in whatever way we choose.

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Moments in time

Moments in time. Each moment a kaleidoscope of doorways - a roundabout of opportunities.

Time is money is energy is opportunity is art is precious.

Everything weighs lightly and moments slip away like raindrops into rivers, like feathers in the breeze, never to be seen again.

The impermanence is shattering - leaving us to glide on eternity's pathway. 

Clouds pose in the gallery of the sky. And never again will this pattern be seen.

We meet - our touch an event in time and space. Our kiss is a doorway to the absolute - opening in both directions, tearing a fissure in the matrix of experience, so the elusive yet ever-present bliss can stream in.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

When God was a woman

When God was a woman, she let her hair grow long.

She sat not on a cloud but the earth.

When God was a woman, she revealed herself through plants and songs.

In the beginning was the smile and the smile was with God and the smile was God.

When God was a woman, she made love without force, ceremony or duty.

She coursed through a magical realm, where sounds were spells and the world danced to their intent.

When God was a woman, she was tender.

For all that is without was once within.

Friday, 3 August 2012

Any given moment

Freedom-liar. Witch-doctor. Earth-polluter. Baby-bomber.

At any given moment they will go to war.

The State, that we love, that we cherish, that cradles us, that holds us, is a military force primed to destroy.

Don't turn away. Don't brush it under the pavement, paid for with your taxes.

Your government loves you. It does. Your government needs feeding. It loves you. You feed it. You moan about it but you love it. You feed it.

And look what it does.

The oligarchic-corporate-banking few are playing with democracy like puppets on strings, creaming off massive winnings, whilst the people scrabble and scuffle over minor issues. 

Does it really matter, whatever you're worried about?

What really matters?

What is worth worrying about?

Once the facts are amassed and a composite picture viewed, it is shocking.

Whether we've passed the tipping point - 2 degree rise! - or whether there is a way to go before things really slide, these are critical times.

Everyone is complicit.

To varying degrees.

There are solutions rising but how many people are embracing them?

Not nearly enough.

We are scared of a revolution because of what history has shown us.

But revolutions are unfolding every day.

Some revolutions just happen and some people go with them and others don't.

Some revolutions are decided upon and waged - like a jog in the park - it takes a conscious decision and then commitment.

You'll never be the same.

You'll never know what the outcome will be until it comes out in the wash.

It may be a restoration.

It may be the birth of something new.

What comes after this?

We write the script.

You know what happens when you don't write the script.

You have to follow the lines of some idiots with crazy ideas about how to order the world.

And that's all getting a bit boring. A little bit boring. Really boring.

I mean - can you bear to read a paper these days?

It is boring because we are not making the news.

Imagine reading about what we have achieved.

Imagine writing the news.

Imagination is a step. After criticism. Before action.

Criticism. Imagination. Action.

Things will never be the same.

Not in a cloud-sea-air kind of way.

But in a massive re-arrangement of social relations on an unprecedented scale kind of way.

On a shift of the ages epic-scale kind of way.

On a let's make this into a really cool film instead of some stir-crazy b-movie kind of way.

We could do it at any given moment.

Balance threat with possibility and tip the weights towards the explosive, the fantastic, the long-dreamt of. Multiply what is, into a higher dimension of triumphant solution-forth.

Let's do it.



Jazz sounds, jazz rolls round. High five. Hands meet through smokey climes. We climbed here, through the rubble, through the struggle of our lives and now the music sounds us, the music becomes us and we move to the jazz beats.

She's got new shoes - sometimes new shoes is all it takes and a look in the mirror that meets approval and a confident burst on the streets. Flip-flop through puddles, she sees the dying sun reflected in the pavement pool and remembers to check her watch to see if she is on line, on time, her mind already moving to the jazz beats, though she's not quite there yet.

The town heaves, the town breathes, the town leaves its inhabitants gasping. The old man's raspy voice speaks of late-night smokes and clandestine tokes and a scene that never lets you go. He's still moving to the jazz-beats and the jazz-beats have got him.

She passes the old man and he tips his hat to her grace - the new generation take up the race but his mind's still quivering from the shock of the jazz-beats that got him moving all that time ago. She doesn't stop, perhaps she can't stop but she pays him a smile that makes him happy - the kind of smile that makes the whole day worthwhile - the kind of smile that he used to make on the dance-floor, pacing out rhythms to the jazz-beats.

Soon the silver-moon has taken over from the red-ember sun and the darkness consolidates its grip on the town, only fought off by a few neon-lights, infantry in a night-long war, who enter the battle-field each sunset and retreat as the natural light emerges in the morning mayhem, revealing the discarded junk of those who moved to the jazz-beats, the winners and losers, the lovers and survivors of the jazz-beat happenings.

Every so often she is distracted by the hungry call of men, trying their luck, thinking of the jazz-beats and who they can dance with or maybe thinking of the jazz-beats they can bang out in their bedroom, but she is not for stopping and paces onwards, diving into the electric shade of the night's numbness. All she can think of are the jazz-beats, the heat she loves to feel as she rides the waves of the dancefloor and the seat by the bar where she sips her drink, in between jazz-beat shuffles.

Now she's close she checks herself - a moving composure which has kept steady so far, a smooth chaos which pulses to the sound of jazz-beats, always in her head - the dancefloor agenda has gone deep and continues in every circumstance. She can hear strains of jazz-beats as the door is opened and closed by the doorman letting the next few in. Those jazz-beats she lives for - those jazz-beats that are her destination and desire and her everything. She feels her flutter-heart-flutter and nothing could stop her in the whole world. Steps towards the jazz-beats, she's now entered the field of the club and her chemistry is in full-flush.

The jazz-beat procession swirls, through the music, through the people, through the building, down the stairs, through the door, onto the doorman, and onto her. It's got her. The jazz-beats always win. And when she's in, so does she.

Monday, 30 July 2012

Beyond rings and crowns

The image of the rings rules the Summer, rules the city, rules the airwaves but we are bigger than that.

The image of the crown, the palace, the throne rules the Summer, rules the city, rules the airwaves but we are bigger than that.

Life presents us with a series of claims to authority to which we can submit if we do not dare.

From parent, to teacher, to bully, to priest, to politician, to celebrity and so on. We stand in the shadow of impressions, of thought-forms and patterns which seek to hold us in their grip.

A dizzying array of ideologues and ideologies, of systems and systematisers dance in and out of our minds, but we are bigger than that and something tiny within us is constantly reminding us of that fact.

That tiny thing connects us to one another and to our ultimacy, our divinity, the crown of the universe, quite beyond any terrestial kings and queens.

To whom do you bow down? To whom do you defer your own brilliance to? What stands in the way of you and the lightning strikes that seek to exalt you into cosmic freedom?

Each person is a slave, a serf, a pupil, a soldier, an employee, a devotee, a patient, a child, until they reach out to claim their own liberation - only then can the dance of subjugation be seen and it is clear that both sides are complicit in different ways.

To walk free along creative openings, with the sky as perpetual backdrop and blank canvas on which to sketch our heart's designs.

The rings are ours to juggle with - the palace is ours to live in - the crown is ours to wear - and the games are ours to play.

Push on. Reclaim your imagination. Weaken all false gods that stand in your way until you can feel the heat from the blazing trail that is opening before you. Divinity demands no intermediaries. Are you willing to stand in the light and be known?

Thursday, 5 July 2012

O Felix!

O Felix!
Felicitacious, flexible, flirtatious and feeling.

Divine happiness!
Radiant, humbling yet exultant and healing.

Fly now, dive now, spin now, be now.
Remember to remember - forever unifying.

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Anarchists kiss

Anarchists kiss without rulers.

Resist restrictions on erotic trists.

Anarchists desist from controlling others.

Enlisting them into realms of bliss.

Saturday, 16 June 2012


It's all real yet none of it exists in any substantial sense.

This petrol world - oil for fuel, plastic for toys, pollution for air.

We dwell in a version of reality which we are asked to buy into. To invest in a stake, betting on a better future, or at least securing a place in a better-than-other-places now.

Everywhere we are confronted with assaults on our sense of what is - stylised, touched-up, genetically-engineered, digitally-enhanced, perceptually-lifted. To be natural is to be boring. Hyperreality lifts us into a fantasy realm, divorced from mundane consequences. Like a credit-bubble, it's fun whilst it lasts. Whilst the skin beneath our make-up decays and the self beneath our persona quietly dies. This is a Demiurge's world we are led to believe in. Caves of compromise. Castles of convenience. Endless programmes of titillation and distraction from the main event. Which is everything you truly desire.

A battle between the ideal, the actual and the possible. Between how we want to see it, how it appears and how it could be. 

Coming back to our senses is our contemporary salvation. The crucifixion of the symbolic. Where crosses and crescents are discarded so we can stand tall and free on the hill-top, seeing the sky clearly without perceptual filters added on by culture.

Beyond art is the art of life. Beyond the art of life is life. Beyond life is.....

Wednesday, 13 June 2012


He sits - Zen-lover like. Silky, creamy coat. A model of perfection but with soft edges that love to be stroked. Silent in his being he has no message. He is bliss.

She is a more mixed affair. Tortoise shell fur. Not sure if she likes to be with others but approaches nevertheless. She likes to chatter but if rankled will strike out. Life is not smooth for this one. In the battle.

They lie together - yin and yang-like. Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in conflict. Two-tone but far from identical twins.

(for Echo and Hello)

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

The decision tree of life

Sprouting from personal roots
reaching down into unknown soil,
we emerge into
a decision tree of networked possibilities,
pathways bifurcating and interweaving,
as we plot our way.

Sometimes sure,
sometimes fraught with burning anxiety,
as splits in our path open up
chasms of uncertainty
and we teeter between worlds.

Each door calling us with
a kind invitation
or urgent beckoning
to join
disappearing into infinite landscapes,
canvasses waiting to be painted,
happy to be stroked
by the brushes of our lives.

Friday, 11 May 2012

The unknown

Welcome to the unknown.

This is not something you have dreamt of.
This is not what you hoped for.
This is not the future you ordered.

This is where the road ends.

This is where the tracks of your life fade and you start to slide on faith.

The unknown is not something that can be controlled.
Or second-guessed.

Don't try to escape because there is nowhere to go.

Nothing to do.

And nobody to do it with.

The unknown is freedom.

Freedom from all illusions.

The unknown cannot be known because there is nothing to know.

Everything from now on in is pure grace.



When two people cluster,
with all the love they can muster,
into that strange state we call marriage,
then we can see,
that to commit is to be free,
and they sail away in their marital carriage.

We wish them well,
and hope they will tell
of all the wonders on their way.
And if they should need
a good friend in deed,
then all they should do is say.

To be together is fine
but to be wed is divine
and their souls journey as one.
The road ahead is winding
and their vows are binding
for each others' hearts they have won.

(written to order for a wedding of friends of a friend)

Sunday, 6 May 2012

Day 8 of poor weather

The sky,
the view,
the many watch the few watch the many
and still the clouds are all we can see.

The sun has been hiding for days,
locked away behind veils of dismal weather,
whilst the human drama continues
in all its glorious, loving, hateful exchange.

Every moment is a dress rehearsal
and every moment is the final show.
Teetering between now and not yet,
we waver,
the great Forward entices us with glimpses of wonder,
as we continue programming for ultimate bliss.

The sky, the view, the city, unsacralised from above,
but we adore and endure each other regardless,
until the sun,
our One,
is made visible again by clearing of greyness
to make way for full illumination.

Saturday, 5 May 2012

Sensory Zen Story

The senses of the Sensei feed on data-bliss.

Rainbow streams whirl in kaleidoscopic ways.

Each god a petal in the flower of existence, intermingling fragrantly. 

Every relative frequency exists simultaneously yet differently

                           in 1 Giant Coincidence.

This is a sensory Zen Story,
which has been going on for endless centuries,
in which we write the script, weave the fabric
and use our response-ability to chart our course.

Let our ships sail into unknown waters,
docking onto dream-shores.
And let our sails catch the winds
and our hulls be tickled by the waves

so we can fly into the         ocean-skies           of our most fabulous desires.

Friday, 13 April 2012

Some of life's paradoxes

Repetitive pulses yet extraordinary dynamics.

A piece of paper flickers between emptiness and fullness.

Marks hold both meaning yet are utterly meaningless.

What is deepest and most profound feels so vulnerable.

It is harder to be tender than to be cruel.

(Unless the opposite is the case.)

Sometimes to return we need to be apart.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Strings of particularity

Plucking strings of particularity - she plays a melody so sweet, the air bends graciously to her intentions.

She's accomplished yet the song is going into new, unforeseen directions - stretched by the persuasions of circumstance and upwelling desire.

This is a subtle fire she is setting alight, like a sparkler's effervesence, her soul's champagne fizzes with delight.

Soaring communications spiral and tease each ear they happen to reach - the smile of her face is a symbol for the quality of mind from which it all emanates.

Her strings of particularity, which now she has in hand, are open to those who may feel adept at playing their own song on her harp of being. A delicacy and sense of precision are required to make her sing.

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

It's all you

Be sexy/noble/funny/daring/bright/loving/thoughtful/tender/stylish/passionate by all means but don't forget your boring/bland/tired/cautious/silly/clumsy/hurt/workaday/dull sides either. It's all you!

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

We, multiply, are one


The Father's rule is ending.

We, multiply, are ascending.

Displacement of systems is the name of the game.

Shift the configuration to a world wide web of beings.

The sun will remain but the Sun-King will fall from the sky to be reborn in our own electrical charge.

We, multiply, are one.

This is the New World Order.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Message to ideologues

This is a message to all the ideologues, wannabee kings, control drama operators and petty gurus. I'm onto you.

I can sniff out your game in 10 seconds flat.

You think you are liberators but you trap souls in your system-bubbles.

I'll give you trouble,

as I pull the carpet from under your feet, rearrange the furniture, smash the windows to let in some fresh air.

When was the last time you had an original thought, sought to step outside the confines of your belief-addiction?

You weave meta-narratives & impose your agenda on this complex lattice of events.

I know you feel pain and want to contain the insane experience of being here and now

but STOP.

Stories are stories and do tell stories but don't close the book & freeze the contents.

Keep looking, go closer, go deeper, seep into the pages, go way beyond the sages & fly through the etched meaningless of letters to a boundless existence.

Only this, only this.

Friday, 27 January 2012

Mercy, all mercy.

I see the heavens opening and mercy pouring out onto the streets.

A thousand dreams coalesce and impress their energies on the contours of skin, fulfilling the promises of people everywhere.

At last the vision becomes visible.

Feuds melt away. They are dancing outside the clubs, on the streets. People breaking bread together. The movement is upon us.

Everywhere people exchange seeds. Seeds of beauty. Seeds of courage. Seeds of tenderness. No more shooting. These seeds sprout shoots which give birth to flowers.

Say it, say it, no longer under your breath, no longer as a half-whispered embarrassment. Speak your truth and let it inhabit the fresh open air, which was meant to carry wisdom, not lies.

A fissure is made down the side of the office block and untapped potential seeps out of the place.

I see alien craft descend with great delight as the conditions on earth become amenable to a full disclosure of the gifts they bear for humanity.

This is the second and the third and the fourth and an unending coming. Coming together, always beginning yet unfinished, wet with anticipation and smiling with satisfaction.

Mercy, all mercy. The best win yet grace gives the prizes and the bounty is shared.

Friday, 13 January 2012


Light bends to be in all places simultaneously.

Lighter now and softer now the surface re-arranges according to the designs of the depths.

Lighten up the place with an entrance that lifts the vibration of the room.

Lightning strikes in a series of successions - cracks in the darkness making the electric atmosphere visible.

Light is light is light and no-one knows why or how or where or when but only this.